On Sport
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: Extortion, illegal fight clubs, and murder in Nantes. This is Sherlock's idea of a holiday. Pre-slash if you put your goggles on.
1. Nantes

**Chapter One: Nantes**

"It's extortion. You don't _do_ extortion."

"It's intrigue."

"It's punching. And hurting."

John circled around to stand behind Sherlock and his chair, leaning down to read the email again. "And it's in _France._"

Sherlock was already typing a reply. "Nantes. You wouldn't say no to a winter holiday in France, John?" He had sent the response before John had the power of speech. "Have you ever been to a boxing match?" It was almost akin to genuine curiosity. He had half-turned his head, eyebrows vanished into his curls.

John shifted his weight, mouth gone a thin line. "You've said I'm coming, haven't you?"

"Of course." Sherlock was up out of his chair, and the way he moved was contrary to his normal, careful, crane-like steps. He bobbed once, held both hands fisted near his chin, and weaved quickly out of John's sight. "I'll be needing a doctor."

Sherlock filled him in while they waited their turn through security at Heathrow. Emile Montagne was what some people might have called an old friend, but Sherlock most certainly didn't have _friends_ (especially before John, or the skull). They'd met four years ago when Emile had been arrested in London as a part of an illegal fighting ring that Sherlock and Lestrade had busted open. The boxy young frenchman had been quite the squawker, and he spilled his guts expertly. Seventeen men were arrested on Emile's word, and with some quick work from Sherlock (and, he begrudgingly admitted, Mycroft), Emile was sent home without a prosecution.

The detective had been quick to point out, as he hopped out of his shoes and placed them in the plastic tub, that extortion was only a fraction of the intrigue of their trip to Nantes. There'd been a body—covered in contusions and with a nasty concussion to boot. Beaten to death, and beaten very professionally. Officials ruled it a mugging, but they were all a pack of idiots, regardless of country. Emile had known the man, and was asking Sherlock to look into the possibility of death by sport.

John's shoes joined Sherlock's in the tub and _he_ pointed out that, sorry as it was, boxers had died from injuries ringside and in training for a long time without the intervention of intrigue. Sherlock smiled a tight smile, called John obtuse, and stepped through the metal detector.

Why, after all, would they be boarding a flight into France for a bit of sport?

Sherlock looked folded in half in the airline seat. John took the seat by the window (not as if he hadn't flown over the Channel before, not as if he hadn't flown across deserts and mountains a hundred years ago) and Sherlock watched the others passing about, chatting, drinking, seething in silence, with an observant eye and drumming fingertips. John didn't bother to worry about breaking the man's concentration, simply spoke over the deductions and leaned obtrusively on the armrest.

"So your friend—" He ignored Sherlock's scoff, "—this Emile chap, he thinks it was murder for money? And so he thinks it's a good idea to send you in to take a couple punches yourself?"

Sherlock didn't look away from the stewardess (paying for uni with the job, terrified that her sickly father would die when she was in the air) when he answered in low tones: "I would appreciate if you didn't try so hard to destroy our cover so soon, John."

John cleared his throat, pressed his lips together and gave a surreptitious look around the cabin. "Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"_What_ cover?"

"Oh," the detective intoned lightly. Then, the line appeared between his eyebrows, and he quickly shifted his gaze to the man beside him. "John, that _is_ what undercover means. I can't waltz into the middle of an illegal fight club and tell them, 'Oh, yes, by the way, Sherlock Holmes'—"

"'World's only consulting detective'," John finished for him. He sighed, shook his head and gave in immediately. "I don't have to lie to anyone important, do I? Police?"

"How much French do you know?" Sherlock asked; his eyes had trailed away again.

"Enough to ask how to get out of a French-speaking situation."

Sherlock's lips pursed up in a private smirk. "Then you won't have the means to lie to _anyone_, will you?"

* * *

John had been to France. Twice.

He'd been to Paris, a family trip when he was seven and Harry was eleven. It'd been a hot, stinking summer and Harry had vomited in the Louvre. And his father got drunk and vomited in the hotel room. John had rather liked the Eiffel Tower, stepped very close to the rail and stood on tiptoe to peer over, scared his mother half to death when he tried to climb up for a better look.

The second had been with a girl, both twenty and broke and stupid. Took the train to Nice, realized they hadn't enough to pay for a proper room. They took a room at the hostel, shared it with an American who hadn't showered in weeks and snored. Took the train back from Nice and broke it off two days later.

Now he was in Nantes with Sherlock Holmes—Addison Darling, he had to remind himself, and he was Doctor Peter Moran; they had perfectly-faked papers direct from Mycroft to thank for that. It was raining in January, and there was a cool wind to accompany it, but it hardly seemed fit for winter to be so inviting.

They finally met Emile Montagne at a tiny cafe, tucked down a back alley between the wall of graffiti and a creperie. He was shorter than John, but built like a sturdy box. Square-chested, square-faced, square-handed. Not to say that he wasn't handsome. An Englishman might not have been able to pull it off, but Emile had a smile (and the dark hair and blue eyes surely helped) that added pounds to his charisma.

"Emile," Sherlock said at once as the man rose from his seat. "_Bon pour vous voir_ _n'êtes pas__ en prison encore_."

John hadn't expected the words to roll off Sherlock's tongue like he owned them, as if his brain hadn't even needed to switch tracks from English to French.

Emile gave an expression that translated easily; sarcastic politeness. "_Je suis enchanteé de vous voir, Sherlock._" His bright eyes alighted on the detective's companion, and a new smile crawled over his features.

Sherlock broke in hastily. "_Ceci mon meilleur ami, docteur John Watson_."

Hearing his name, the doctor held out his hand and received a warm shake. "John."

Emile raised an eyebrow, definitely intrigued, and asked: "_Petit ami?_"

Finally, Sherlock grinned to match him, and easiness crept back into the rigidity that had taken his shoulders. "_Soyez-gentil lui._"

The frenchman gave a laugh and clapped John on the shoulder, gesturing the both of them to sit. They gladly took it, and the coffee was on Emile. He explained (in perfect English, John noted with a scowl) that the man, Henri, that'd been found dead two days back had been good friends, and they had trained at the same gym. That same gym was part of the underground and slightly less than legal fighting operation that Emile was a part of. As Henri's trainer, of course. He hadn't gotten his hands dirty for years.

Emile had been sick for the last meet and hadn't been able to make it, so the assistant trainer had stood in for him. That was the night Henri died. Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together in thought, only nodding when he urged the story forward. John had never seen him so quiet.

They were to show up at the gym with their new names and their new identities sharply when the morning came. Emile was sure that with an open slot in the roster, he would be able to slip Sherlock in with little problem. From that position, he was sure that Sherlock would be able to get all the information he needed from everyone involved, not only to find how Henri had died, but what he had been killed for. And, of course, find out where the fight money was going.

When the streetlights came on, Emile gave them the keys to the flat above the cafe. He wished them a good night and bid them a soft _adieu_ before he was off into the night.

"So," John said, sticking his hands deep in his pockets and letting a little smile quirk to his lips, "I'm your best friend?"

He looked up, but Sherlock rarely gave him any reaction to gauge. This time, Sherlock's eyes flicked his way and his eyebrows quickly pressed together, but he soon broke contact. Not _that_ surprised, anyway.

The smile was soon a grin. "Doesn't _best_ anything imply there's something else to compare it to?"

And he didn't look up from his feet, but John could see Sherlock's lopsided smirk all too easily.

* * *

AN: Hi friends! I'm giving a chapter fic a try! My good friend told me that she would like me to try a Sherlock fic where there was no boykissin (extreme UST allowed, though, heehee), so here is a legitimate try at it! I still consider it pre-slash, but I hope it can also be read through friendship goggles too. Also, the fandom needs way more boxing!Sherlock. MY FRENCH IS AWFUL AND I HAD TO USE A TRANSLATOR. If there's something horribly wrong, please tell me! The fic probably won't be too long, but who knows if there are more in this silly old head of mine. Enjoy, leave some love, and as usual, STAY AWESOME!


	2. Cover

**Chapter Two: Cover**

The flat was on the third floor, and a cat had lived there some time in the last year. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully as he stepped across the threshold, peeling his gloves off and stuffing them safely in his pockets. John peered at the sad little flat with a growing frown as Sherlock found a closet to hang his coat in.

"Oh, for God's—" John's exasperation trailed off, stepping into the single bedroom and staring at the single bed. "_Sherlock_," he called with an edge in his voice. Where'd the man gone so quickly? John stalked for the kitchen only to find that it was a kitchenette, and that it didn't contain Sherlock.

The man appeared from the infinitesimal bathroom, the look of displeasure mirrored unknowingly on his face. "Yes, what?"

"One bed," John fumed, crossing his arms. "You didn't think to ask ahead for a twofer?"

"Does Emile look like the kind of man who keeps regular company?" Sherlock stepped by him easily to the bedroom, doing a quick sweep (for what, John didn't know or ask).

"We could get a hotel," John suggested, pressing forward to stand in the doorway.

"No, we couldn't," Sherlock replied easily, flopping down on the bed with no further ceremony, and pressed his fingers together at his lips.

"What? Why not?"

Sherlock made an unimpressed noise in the back of his throat. "Art of disguise," he murmured as if having repeated it constantly. "If we were followed from the gym and we stepped into a hotel, how long do you think our cover would last? Tomorrow night?" He looked over at John's unmoving face. "Blending in, John."

When Sherlock didn't move from the bed, John finally turned on heel and stalked back out to the sitting room, muttering about the sofa and his abused neck. The doctor pulled stale-smelling sheets down from the linen closet and threw them down unceremoniously.

"Hair," John said when he returned to the door of the bedroom. Sherlock didn't look up. "You'll need it cut."

The entire top half of Sherlock snapped up to attention, consternation boiling on his face at the effrontery. John almost broke the frown and laughed.

"You're going to sweat," John began, leaning on the door frame, "and your hair's going to get in your eyes. And then they're going to beat you to a fine pulp because you can't see a damn thing. Come on." He rolled off toward the kitchen at the last, gesturing for Sherlock to follow.

He didn't, at first, but at the sound of John rummaging through the kitchen drawers, he levered off the bed and followed cautiously. John's muttering reached a crescendo and he gave a flourish of "Gotcha!" when Sherlock stepped in like a child expecting a punishment. John held the scissors close for inspection, and finding them good enough, took Sherlock by the shoulder and pressed him down into the nearest chair.

Sherlock's fingers fidgeted. He stopped them. "How short?"

John measured the length of his own hair, then shrugged. "A fair bit. Don't worry, I'm not cutting your ear off, I've done this before." He looked as though he couldn't have been happier. "Art of disguise, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned deeply as the dark curls were snipped off one by one, falling down his shoulders and pooling at his feet. He looked as though he were losing a dear friend. He did a fair job of not showing it, but even John couldn't miss the clutching and re-clutching of long-fingered fists at his side.

"Christ," John said in a burst of laughter when he stood back to examine his work. When Sherlock's pitiful frown deepened, John was quick to hold his hands out in surrender. "No, no, not the hair, it's just... you're so damn skinny without all that hair on your head." He observed everything he'd cut off and, smirking, glanced back up. "What do you think, lost a stone or two?"

"Shut-up," Sherlock hissed at last.

He spent six whole minutes in front of the bathroom mirror, running his own fingers through his hair, silently bemoaning its loss for the sake of the case. John chuckled to himself until he'd fallen asleep.

* * *

"Addison," John said, trying not to giggle for a second time.

Sherlock's eyes ticked over in annoyance.

"Addison's a _girl's_ name." He turned the laughter into a cough, smiled in a friendly way to a young couple passing by arm-in-arm.

"What does it matter?" Sherlock murmured, though clearly not pleased with all the amusement John seemed to be getting out of it.

They'd fallen into their parts—easily, on Sherlock's part, who could have been an actor if the detecting hadn't worked out for him, John thought; with more difficulty for John's part, who wasn't used to deception over a long period. Even if John's character needed less adjustment than the detective's, who most definitely _looked_ like a different person when John finally woke in the early hours.

Addison Darling was as little like Sherlock that Sherlock must have been able to pull off. The short hair certainly helped; his bony face stood out even more starkly, shadowed with a day and night of stubble. He wore a drab hooded sweatshirt over a wife beater, and he was smiling. On Sherlock, it had a tendency to look frightening; on Addison it was positively inviting. Even the way he walked was different, a lazy sort of grace with a hunch to his shoulders that almost made him look shorter. It was a wonder he hadn't affected an accent.

"Don't shave," Sherlock had said tersely from outside the bathroom door, and John had frozen with razor in hand.

He'd frozen again when he passed Sherlock on the way to his bags, head titling in unbelieving shock. "What in God's name are you _wearing_? It _stinks_," he'd added, turning sharping to face his friend. And Sherlock had laughed. This was clearly going to take some getting used to.

"Peter," Sherlock said as they strode down the sidewalk from the cafe. When John didn't immediately look up, Sherlock added in a growl: "That's you, John."

"Right, sorry," he answered sheepishly.

"Peter, I need you to stick to Emile when we get to the gym." He pulled John into the bus stop when the doctor didn't halt his steps with him.

"What for?"

"In case I miss anything. Someone he speaks with, anywhere he goes where I don't follow."

"No," John said flatly. Sherlock's practiced facade was gone in an instant, old annoyance and confusion sitting there. "No, I'm not as good as you are. I'll miss something important, or—"

"I wouldn't be asking if I didn't trust you," Sherlock snapped over him.

"All right," John cut in defensively. "Okay, fine. I'll see what I can do."

"Fine." Sherlock shoved his hands deep into the pocket of his sweatshirt. The frown didn't fit the new personality, and the discrepancy was jarring. "Thank you."

He was Addison again by the time the bus swooped in to pick them up, grinning boyishly as he flashed the bus tickets he had bought yesterday.

The gym was six stops and fourteen minutes from the flat, and they hadn't spoken on the way. But John had noticed (he noticed more than Sherlock gave him credit for, most times) that Sherlock hadn't reached for the phone he hadn't brought. John had both of them in his shoulder bag. He knew Sherlock would need it, better to be ready when he asked. The gym itself was squat and brick and fairly ugly, but nondescript. The perfect spot for a den of iniquity.

It was close and hot inside, and three large fans were whirring and circulating the damp air. All the equipment was old, at least five years and worn well. The salty smell of sweat was everywhere, even with only seven men in sight. Two of them were in the ring, muted gloved punches echoing, one hammering away at a fraying punching bag. One of them was Emile.

Sherlock unzipped the sweatshirt and gave John an encouraging nod. John adjusted himself, settled his shoulders, and took powerful steps forward. This was his thing, his one thing, that Sherlock has asked him to do.

So he threw his arms wide and smiled. "Emile!"

Emile turned, and to his credit, he may have been an actor on the side. His eyes shone with bon mots and he mirrored John's stance. "Peter! You're late, you son-of-a-bitch!"

They caught each other in a brotherly embrace, and Emile's palms slapped hard on John's back. The frenchman grabbed the doctor by the shoulders and steered him toward a small group of men, who all instantly began to size John up as he was shoved into their ranks.

"_Il est le médecin extraordinaire que je vous parlais_." And then the next was, thank God, in English. "Doctor Peter Moran, these are my good friends. Work associates. We train the boys here, train them into excellent fighters."

"Hello," John offered his hand, and it was shaken three times. He took in as much detail as he thought he could remember for Sherlock. Prunier, tall and angular, maybe fifty years old by the cataracts; he had old scars on his knuckles, calluses when he shook John's hand; a smoker's voice. Mongeau, stocky and younger, but older than John; shock of white hair at his temple, maybe from an accident; had a lisp. Brousseau, dark and quiet; hardly acknowledged anyone but the men fighting in the ring; a light band on his finger where a ring might've been once.

There was a bout of laughter from behind them, and the four men turned. The two boxers in the ring, leaning languidly against the ropes in a mutual break, were talking in what could only be interpreted as a mocking tone. They were pointing at the long, pale, irrefutably skinny man who was taping his knuckles while he sat on the bench near them.

"Addison Darling," Emile intoned to the group. "Incredible reach, powerful swing. He has just come from England with good Doctor Moran, come for a bit of sport." John pressed his lips together anxiously, but he smiled plainly when Sherlock glanced up. "I invited Peter up for a tour, he could not resist bringing his boy along."

"_Il est trop maigre_," one of the boxers hissed, elbowing the bruised man beside him.

They laughed again. Sherlock gave a tight, facetious smirk.

"Am I?" Sherlock asked, bouncing immediately to his feet, completely in control of the gangling limbs at his side. "Care to take a try?"

The boxer who'd spoken chortled to himself, and at once cocked an eyebrow when Sherlock didn't back down. "_Voyons vous essayez_."

The part of John that was still locked somewhere in Baker Street wants to jump forward and stop him from doing something stupid, but this was _the plan_. This was the way Sherlock wanted to do it, completely involving himself in the situation until the information presented itself. Integration, infiltration, investigation. So John settled for biting his lip and worrying.

Sherlock was up and over the ropes in a quick arc, bouncing once as he hit the ring. He didn't have his gloves on. John physically restrained himself from planting his face into his waiting hands. To be fair, his opponent unlaced his own gloves and tossed him to his sparring partner, who had vacated the ring with a rat-like smirk.

They didn't waste a second. The boxer opened with a straight punch aimed at Sherlock's ribs, and if John hadn't been watching, he'd have sworn the detective straight-up teleported three steps back from his attacker. As it was, his long crane legs bent, and he bobbed softly away from the swipe, left and back, and he was suddenly halfway across the ring. His feet shifted, and he bent at the knees, hands fisted near his face. He was smiling, that smug bastard.

His arm was too long by far, it cracked in effortlessly for a jab right under the boxer's eye. And again, a second with Sherlock's off-hand, and it scored another hit. The boxer took it well, recovered, and countered with a series of jabs that glanced off Sherlock's well-placed blocks. And Sherlock took two long steps, two quick steps, and he was backed up against the ropes. Smiling.

Someone cursed in French near John's shoulder, and he saw that Prunier's eyes were shining, following each hit with a bob of his head. The others seemed just as involved. Even Emile seemed impressed.

Then, it was a flurry of movement that John almost didn't catch. Sherlock moved in like a bird—sharp punch to the ribs, solid jab in at the man's ear, and with a third, strong, fluid motion as he moved into the space he had made with his fists, a full-on uppercut through the boxer's jaw.

The boxer took the full force, was pummeled back into the ropes, and shook it off quickly before Sherlock could step in again. He got off two jabs to Sherlock's unguarded middle, but it was a last-ditch effort. The boxer was already worn from his sparring partner's hits, and Sherlock's jabs—quick but forceful, at an impossible range to counter—were wearing him thinner. Even John could see that. And he didn't know a damn thing about boxing.

It was over quickly. John hadn't even seen Sherlock's final blow, but soon the French boxer was waving one hand in surrender, leaning one arm heavily over the top rope to hold up his slackening body. Sherlock took a wide step backward, observed the ruin he'd brought, then gave a light, polite bow. With a sweeping of his legs, he was up and over the ropes again.

John took his cue. "Ah, Emile, you've met Addison." The friendly hand on Emile's shoulder felt strange, but he left it there for effect. The crowd followed their lead and stepped up to Sherlock's perch on the bench. The fight had been over quickly, but the adrenaline was obvious in the bright gray eyes, the heaving chest.

"Addison's quite the boy," Emile declared, shaking Sherlock's grubby hand. "I've been thinking of taking him under my wing, so to speak." The look he gave to the others was heavy, and John filed it away.

It was the doctor in John that spoke: "Christ, what've you done to yourself?" when he saw Sherlock's red and swelling knuckles.

Emile took the hint. "We'll leave you to look at that, Peter. I've some discussing to do with my associates."

They had hardly gone five feet before John was digging into his bag for the pitiful medical supplies he'd been able to get his hands on. He settled for a not-so-cold compress.

"Not five minutes I let you alone," John muttered, pressing it to Sherlock's hand.

"Thank you," Sherlock breathed, chest still heaving.

"For what?"

He grinned so wide it seemed painful. "The haircut."

* * *

AN: Hi again! Hopefully these chapters will get put up quickly, but with christmas in a few days, it may be a few before I get another up. Also, there was a question posed as to whether slash will creep up into this story, and I can assure you I won't let it happen. My friend explicitly asked for no slash, so I attempt to write nonslash! Hope y'all enjoy, leave some love and STAY ESPECIALLY AWESOME!


	3. Roster

**Chapter Three: Roster**

John spent the day chatting up Emile and the other trainers. He'd finally got Sherlock to put on his boxing gloves (the detective wouldn't hear the possibility of taking a break while John got some antiseptic for the cut that had already opened on his knuckles, and was working on a punching bag by the time his doctor was back with the bandage), and he was spending his time with the fighters. Even though John was engaged with the older men, he kept his eye on his patient from across the gym. He could see Sherlock get chummy with one man, speak for a minute or so, eye him up, and move on.

Prunier commented on how hard it was to find good doctors who would work with them anymore. Boxing wasn't a sport much-liked by medical men, he added with a chuckle. It used to be that fighting was respected, fighting was something to brag about. He touched the scars on his hands fondly, absently. John's hard drive wasn't as big or fancy as Sherlock's, but he found somewhere to file it away anyhow.

He must have been doing something right. Brousseau invited him to dine with himself and his own ringside doctor later that evening. He'd started to say "Before..." but with a sideways glance between himself and Emile, he'd stopped. Emile gave a subtle nod, and Brousseau's slit of a mouth tilted into a sharp smirk. "Before the match."

John tried his best not to look confused. He nodded, smiled painfully, shook both of Brousseau's hands with his own before the older man swept away, taking his fighter with him. They came in threes: trainer, fighter, doctor. John wondered if Sherlock would be able to pair the fighters he was meeting to the trainers he hadn't just on John's descriptions alone. Probably.

He leaned on the ropes, watched Sherlock practice his swings between verbal jabs in lighthearted French with the broad but fast fellow he was sparring with. Leaned there with Emile, who was mostly quiet. They'd both been on edge during the entire exchange with the other trainers, and both had hidden it expertly, and only then could let it leak out of them.

Emile turned covertly to John. "You know what he means when he says _the match_, don't you?"

The wheels had been turning since then, and he was fairly sure he'd figured it out. "Dirty underground stuff, right?" He winced when Sherlock took a jab to the ribs. "And the ones that aren't fighting take bets, I'll wager."

Emile nodded. "Those three, me, four more. Not very big, but the crowd can be. Four matches a night. Rules are very lax." When he frowned, John thought it didn't suit the face at all. "Boys have always been hurt, but it's never been this bad. Money gone missing and now Henri..." Even John could see that Henri's death had hit Emile harder than he liked to show, than maybe even more than Sherlock knew. "You've both been invited. Do go to dinner, it may help."

"Sherlock's the best," John reassured him. "He'll work it out."

"I'm worried he may not work it out fast enough," Emile sighed, and with a sad smirk, clapped John on the shoulder and moved away.

"Peter," came Sherlock's voice (cheerful on a day that didn't involve a corpse, so unlike him), and John looked up to see the man bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited. "Water, please?"

John took one last look at Emile's retreating figure before he reached into his bag for the sports bottle. When he attempted to hand it over, Sherlock leaned on the ropes and grinned ear to ear, waving his gloved hands to show his helplessness. John gave a low growl of a sigh and levered himself up to stand on the outside edge of the ring, holding onto the top rope as he administered water to the parched boxer.

"Learn anything interesting?" Sherlock asked once he'd got his breath back. John folded his arms, leaning to mirror him.

"I've been asked out. Dinner."

"Me too. Pub."

John was sure that Sherlock was getting an infinitely better deal. Worse yet, he knew that Sherlock wasn't going to enjoy it. Oh, he'd pretend to, but he'd have no more fun than John would be having, forcing caviar down his throat. They both grimaced at their own prospects.

"How about these fighters, then?" John asked.

"Some of them are only gym patrons. The fellow I had words with earlier, he's one to keep our eyes on. Amateur work on the scar on his right cheek—professional wound, but not a professional clean-up. You may be the only accredited man at the match, Peter."

John frowned deeply. "I don't like it. It sounds..."

"Dangerous?" Sherlock's eyes were bright, probing.

"Emile said these things get dirty. You're going to get the stuffing beat right out of you, if you keep acting like a kid, bouncing around like you're on holiday."

"We _are_ on holiday," Sherlock added. Before John could begin again, he broke in: "I assure you, the concern is appreciated but unfounded. I've got you to look after me, after all."

And he stepped away from the ropes and back into the ring, where his sparring partner gladly welcomed him with gloved fists.

Sherlock slouched down in the bus seat almost as soon as he'd touched it, legs folding nearly over his head. Nevertheless, the facade of Addison never left him, not until he'd walked up the stairs to the flat above the cafe and dropped into the bed. He put fingertips to his mouth in thought, closed his eyes, and prompted John to begin without even waiting for the man to join him in the room.

John told as much as he could remember, sitting at the foot of the bed and gesticulating when something was more difficult to explain (and even if Sherlock didn't see, it still brought an amused flicker of a smirk). He talked about the trainers, each man's name, all of the details he could remember about each of them, Brousseau's invitation to dinner. Most especially, he put emphasis on Emile's feelings on Henri's death, and Emile's concern that Sherlock could be in the same danger Henri had been in. Sherlock asked several questions (How old is Mongeau? Can you _guess_? Did they talk about any of the fighters? Who were they watching? Rings, jewelry?), and then was quiet for a short time.

"You best wash up for dinner," Sherlock said at last, levering his legs over the side of the bed and standing in one swoop.

"Wait, that's it?" John asked, his eyebrows pressing downward until his eyes were unbelieving dark slits.

Sherlock paused halfway through his waltz around the room, head turned to John. "What's it?"

"No deductions? No leads or anything?" He shifted his weight. "You've usually got it solved by now, don't you?"

"Don't be stupid, John," Sherlock sighed, clearly not pleased—his angular shoulders sagged like a petulant adolescent, like he'd been let down. "I haven't collected all of the data yet. The first match is tonight, and with the two of us working together on this little problem, it should be quick and painless."

John scoffed. "When I'm mopping your blood up, you tell me it's painless."

"Pain can be ignored."

"You think I don't know how hard you're getting hit? You might not feel it but I know what it's doing to your insides. You're a bloody lunatic, and I wish you'd pay attention to yourself now and then," John snapped, and he regretted the word choice. Instead of letting it stew, he spun away for the bathroom to wash up for dinner.

He hadn't packed nice clothes. He hadn't thought he'd be dining out (with Sherlock, yes, but they were hardly ever more upscale than the noodle joint on the corner), let alone by himself. He had a good pair of trousers, and he realized he looked less than threatening in all the jumpers he'd shoved into his luggage. It would have to do. Sherlock was true to his word and had sauntered off unshowered and unshaven to a bar three streets down with a handful of the other fighters. Just what they needed, getting pissed before the big fight.

"Details," Sherlock had reminded him as he paused in the door frame, punctuating the word with his finger in a jab to John's collar bone. "Data, data, data," he murmured, large feet quick down the staircase.

* * *

Emile led the way. Dinner was sitting oddly in John's stomach, and the anxiety of the match was already turning his insides sour. Around the back side of the gym in an unlit alley, two big black doors in the ground led down a pneumatic lift into the basement. An illegal fight in a back-alley basement, John thought as he rocked on his heels, how _dull_.

It was less dull when Emile threw the doors open and they descended into the belly of the underworld. They were in the maze of backstage changing rooms, but John could hear the pulsing crowd in the underground arena as if he were standing with them. Loud chanting, shouts of joy and anguish, an announcer gibbering excitedly in a constant stream of French. The sound of a bell.

"They will be announcing the roster now," Emile said quietly, and with a quick look around them as they made their way toward the noise, he added: "Your boy Addison will be back here. We will find him after the matches are announced."

John nodded, grim-faced and wire-jawed, keeping an extra eye out for Sherlock should they pass him. He wanted to say something before the fists started flying and he had to be his doctor. He wanted to get a word in before he had to let professionalism stand before friendship. He hoped he'd get the chance. Emile must have caught John's face in the corner of his eye, and he nodded too.

"I know. I've already lost one."

John's dry throat bobbed painfully.

They opened a discreet back door to the chaos of the crowd. The space wasn't large, enough for a ring and rows of makeshift bleachers to surround it, but every inch was packed thick with shouting men (and the occasional brave, muscled woman who could hold her own in the undulating mass), shoulder to shoulder. It was hotter than the gym upstairs, packed tight and sweating and drinking and laughing. Colorful money in slick hands, awaiting the matches, all eyes on the judges' table. John tugged at his collar, tried to breathe the thick air and found it lacking. Someone nudged his way past the two of them, and Emile dragged John to a safe location to listen.

"_Le dispute premiere_," came the voice over the whining PA, and the crowd grew suddenly hushed. "_Michaud et Bonnay!_"

Not the first match, John noticed with a distinct loosening in his chest. He hardly had time to register the fact before the shouting started once again, and the quick exchange of money began. Bills passed en masse from shouting revelers to several strategically-placed betting tables (they could only be betting tables, what else could they be?) within the crowd. That was where the money came from. John wondered if he oughtn't put a bit on Sherlock to win. To track the money, of course.

"_Le dispute secondaire_," and John rolled his eyes when the voice paused for dramatic effect. "_St Martin et notre boxeur neuf, un oeuf du cul de la poule, Addison Darling!_"

The crowd half-cheered, half-shouted in confusion and, John read instantly, anger. Who was this new fellow? Money was flying, bets going down on the veteran and the new kid in stacks. He wondered if any of them knew Henri was dead. If any of them had killed him.

"Second match," Emile said in John's ear. "He will be in the wings. We can find him before he starts."

"Good," John said, though he was sure Emile couldn't hear him over the next announcement. He was back through the door first, and it was John leading Emile, pressing doors open until he found a damp, stinking locker room that had seen cleaner days. Three fighters in various states of undress were there, and one of them was Sherlock Holmes. Shirtless, shoeless, but utterly unflappable and smirking in a tight V when his trainer and doctor burst through the door.

"Second match," John said, somehow breathless. Had he been walking that quickly?

"Excellent," Sherlock replied, hopping to his feet. "I'd hate to be last, most of the energy would be gone by then. And the crowd. Peter, my tape?"

John wrapped Sherlock's knuckles tightly, carefully, avoiding the detective's solid stare on him when he asked: "How was dinner?"

"You've been drinking," John grumbled, jerking the tape harder than he'd meant to.

"That's what chums do at pubs, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, flexing his fingers in a strength test.

"Don't—" If John hadn't been so worried, he'd have laughed. He almost did. "No one says _chums_... Addison."

"I only took enough to appear social," Sherlock continued flatly. "Don't worry, Peter, I'm not compromised. Dinner?" he tried again.

"Boring," John noted, making sure that Emile hadn't heard him; the man had paid his way, after all. He tugged the glove on over Sherlock's waiting hand, began lacing. "Brousseau's doctor's an idiot. Wouldn't know a scapula from a spatula. He can probably bandage something up, set a bone _maybe_. Clean up after it's done for sure. Might be a janitor for all I know."

Sherlock gave something that might have been a chuckle. "I expect you'll tell me more after the fight."

"Don't talk about the bloody fight," John sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I wouldn't even be watching if I didn't have to clean you up every time you bleed into your eyes."

"Your vote of confidence is well-appreciated." He was quiet while John fixed the second glove on, and finally added: "Don't let me distract you from what's important."

They sat together until the crowd cheered, the first match ended, and Emile steered the both of them out into the lights.

* * *

AN: The French is from my good friend and lovely beta, who we'll call Lady Dan. Her grandparents are French, and she speaks it, so if it's wrong BLAME HER. I will send all your hate mail her way 8D. Anyhow, I hate to break up the build-up and the fight, but there's more suspense this way. Hope my failgrammar doesn't keep you from enjoying, leaving some love and STAYING AWESOME!


	4. Fight

**Chapter Four: Fight**

The lights were hot and blinding, and John threw an instinctive arm up over his brow, squinting for his life to see. The noise had become a blur of sound, and the jostling crowd could only just be held in by the walls as they shouted and reached and punched the air. Sherlock gave a pretty grin and held a gloved fist into the air in reply. The air quivered with response, voices clamoring to shout in favor or against, scathing words that, even if John didn't understand, he could tell were coated in venom. He'd shouted abuse at the telly when some footballer missed a pass, but this vehemence was close and real and directed at Sherlock. He'd had anxiety in the changing room. Looking at the rabid faces of ephemeral supporters and sneering jeerers, John's hands went to fists at his side and he physically held back a scowl. This was anger.

Sherlock was reveling in it, waving and holding both hands in the air as if he'd already claimed the victory. All of his teeth showing when he smiled, winked at a handful of girls near the judges' table. He was having the time of his life, John thought, in the middle of all this. See how he was smiling with fists flying at his face.

In the opposite corner was the man Sherlock would be facing; St Martin, by the announcement earlier. He looked about as tall as John, broad- and bare-chested and strong, thick arms. Ridiculous mustache. Behind him, outside the ropes, were Brousseau and the idiot doctor John had met at dinner (Montand?). Both smiled when John met their eyes, smiles far more sinister than the ones he had seen flash over crystal wine glasses not two hours before. John stared them down right back.

He certainly didn't like the situation, but by God, he had Sherlock's back.

John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and pulled him into speaking range. "Mouthguard, idiot," he said, shoving the bit of plastic into Sherlock's mouth on his own. Sherlock pressed it between his teeth and gave a manic smile to show it off. John shook his head, squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. "Good luck."

They were announcing something from the judges' table, screeching over the PA, and John tried to piece it together with half his attention on the gangly man climbing over the ropes.

"No rounds," Emile told him. "He gets a break when he can't see well enough to fight. Match is over when one man is knocked out."

"Knock-out only?" John asked, whipping to face the frenchman suddenly. "Special fight because Sher—because Addison's new and it'll be fun to knock him around 'til he hits the ground?" It was boiling at the back of his throat, and his eyes flicked from trainer to boxer. No referee. There was no referee. Why would there be a referee in an illegal match?

"It is the rules, Doctor Moran."

John realized at last that it wasn't a judges' table that stood near the ring, with its bell and its aging microphone. It was the priority seating.

And the bell rang.

Sherlock hung back, let St Martin come to him. The veteran circled, pounding his gloves together in anticipation. Sherlock matched his movements, pawing a circle like a pair of cats with hackles raised. Testing, hissing. St Martin spat something in French, and Sherlock gave a sharp smirk.

"And your mother!" Sherlock shouted, muffled by the mouthguard.

He came in first, swinging a jab sidelong into St Martin's right ear to test the waters. The crowd cheered, jeered. And then a second came through, boxing his other ear, and then the right again. Quick, snakelike things that John almost didn't follow. And he bounced backward, St Martin following.

With the success of the first hit, and the ridiculous verbal barb, John actually found himself laughing. He smacked his palm on the flat of the ring in front of him, shouting: "Hand him his arse, Addison!"

He couldn't know if Sherlock had heard him (he had), only that the punches were coming in thick and heavy from both sides. St Martin's reach was shorter than Sherlock's, he found as he tried for multiple assaults on the detective's flanks and neck. Too short especially to try for any long shots to Sherlock's face at safe distance. So he brought the game in close.

Stepped right in between Sherlock's elbows and planted a perfect uppercut into the detective's sharp jaw. Sherlock's head snapped back, surprise and pain etched there for the moment he hung unhindered in the air. His feet stumbled automatically back, and St Martin moved with him. Sticking in close cover. Hits landed hard and full-armed at Sherlock's neck and once right in the side of his face.

The crowd went crazy. Whooping and hollering at St Martin's advances, pounding their feet and spilling their drinks. Emile shoved a hassler away from the ring. John hadn't noticed at all.

Sherlock was right up against the ropes, suddenly and violently. He bounced once on the elastic spring, and suddenly he was back. Hit St Martin right in the nose, drew his fist back with a vengeance, planted it again in the center of his opponent's face. St Martin was hardy, recovered too quickly and planted solid hits on each side of Sherlock's ribcage.

Sweat shone in the lights with every hit, flying off of St Martin's face when Sherlock struck back. He was bleeding. Blood and sweat flying.

Sherlock was ready when St Martin moved into his defenses again. He kept him close, battering St Martin's middle rather than try to get his long arms arranged for a good jab at the face. Harder and harder, pounding the gloves into St Martin's barrel chest, his sides, trying to use his long legs to escape from his dogged pursuer.

St Martin hit hard, one powerful blow to Sherlock's temple. A knot of people in the crowd gasped, some gave a triumphant holler as Sherlock fell back into the ropes again. John found he was gripping the lowest rope nearest him, hard enough to blanch his knuckles. Sherlock's head was cut badly, and blood was already dripping from his brow and into his eye, down his angled cheekbones.

But he shoved himself back up, elbows close to his body and gloves to his chin.

"He can't see," John tried to shout, but he was drowned out by the wave of sound that moved through the crowd as Sherlock picked himself back up. Emile grabbed him and dragged him back down (when had he stood up on his toes, trying to climb up and interfere?).

"Don't interrupt," Emile warned, his voice a sharp growl. "He will forfeit if you do. Don't shame him, Peter."

He wanted to do it. Wanted to leap into the fray and get the injured the help he could give them. But Sherlock wouldn't condone it. He'd more than likely hate him for it. So John thumped his fist hard against the corner post, gritting his teeth through the punches Sherlock was taking.

St Martin stuck to Sherlock, kept driving in to get as close as he could, jabs flying in to the taller man's face when he dropped his defense for even the shortest lull. The glove to the mouth had nearly dislodged the mouthguard, brought the coppery taste of blood to his tongue. His ribs were battered, but his mind was keen. Sharpened to a dangerous point by the rhythmic throbbing of his body.

Shifted the feet. Danced sideways rather than back, and St Martin opened up just long enough to turn ninety degrees. So Sherlock's long arms reached in, full-strength punches to both sides of St Martin's head, ears, mouth. The back of his head when he took the full strength of a hit and turned with it. The spot between his shoulder blades when he fell to one knee.

The french boxer turned his head to look up at Sherlock, who didn't give him an inch. One long-armed, powerful blow downward, straight across the man's face, was enough to knock him to the ground.

There was whistling, and someone had taken up the accented chant of _Addison! Addison!_

St Martin struggled to regain his wobbling feet, and Sherlock followed through on a downward punch once more. St Martin stayed down.

Sherlock's head tilted back, and John saw the pain squeezed there between his furrowed brows, the turndown in his mouth (slack-jawed and heaving for steady breath), and finally the tension spilled out of him. Tensed arms relaxed, shoulders dropped, gloves like pendulums at his side, and a pained smile eked out over his lips. Emile hopped up into the ring and proudly held one of Sherlock's limp arms overhead in victory.

When Emile had helped Sherlock down out of the ring, John grabbed both sides of the boxer's face and inspected him harshly. They couldn't stay long, the next fight was already moving into commencement, but John needed a look. It took Sherlock's eyes too long to focus for John's liking, and under his breath he muttered a "Bloody hell," and was already pouring antiseptic onto a piece of cloth from his bag. "Addison, how many fingers?" He held a steady hand out for his friend to observe.

Sherlock pursed his lips, winced when John pressed the alcohol to the cut at his brow, and said calmly, "I don't have a concussion, don't patronize me." He squeezed his eyes shut again and admitted: "Slight nausea and disorientation, but hardly indicative of brain damage."

"He made a fine piece of meat out of you," John growled, wiping Sherlock's face clean of blood as well as he could in the jostling crowd. "Emile, get his arm, he needs to sit down."

Emile threaded Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and, with help from John scaring the crowd out of their way, got him to the changing room with no interruption. The doctor forced his patient to sit on the bench while Emile worked the gloves off of his unresponsive hands. And John cleaned up the cuts St Martin had left all over Sherlock's face, bandaged the worst one at his brow, tentatively checked Sherlock's bruised ribs for any cracks.

John didn't want to stay for the next two matches. He wanted to get Sherlock back to the flat, where he could make him lie down and sleep it off. Sherlock wanted to stay and observe the other fights, but Emile gave them leave, offering to keep details on the fights for him. Obviously exhausted and pained, Sherlock limply agreed, but he very much didn't like it.

Emile collected his share of the money won in Addison's name, and Addison's share was even larger (fair enough, that all the work had been in the ring). John pocketed it for him, thanked Emile brusquely, and helped Sherlock worm his way into his jumper.

It'd gone cold when the sun went down, but still not enough to warrant a heavy coat. The streets were dark and nearly emptied. John shifted Sherlock's weight on his shoulder to check his watch: 2:32 A.M. A group of drunken revelers passed by as they moved for the nearest bus stop, and John suspected they were applauding Sherlock's apparent state of inebriation. Once there, John set Sherlock gingerly down on the bench and took an impatient look around. No sign yet, and Nantes wasn't known for its abundance of taxis. It could be a while.

Sherlock was twiddling his thumbs when John looked back over, and once held a hand to his ribs as a shock of residual pain went through them.

"You're too skinny by half," John broke in, almost smiling. When Sherlock looked up, he was smiling wide enough for the both of them. John paused, and his face turned down into lines of sadness that brought even Sherlock's smirk away. "They're going to kill you in there."

Sherlock shrugged. "Henri wasn't murdered in the ring."

John wasn't sure how long he had been turned away, how far away from the bus stop he'd walked in his need to keep moving, pacing, shed off the anxious feeling. All he knew was that he wasn't under the bus shelter when Sherlock gave a muffled shout, and he was dragged off.

Three of them, big muscled men, all in dark clothes to blend in. One had his arm around Sherlock's neck, the rest were trundling him off like a suitcase. They were fast. Fast enough to duck toward the nearest alley before John's instincts could spring him into a hard bolt after them. Maybe they hadn't seen him, maybe they'd thought he'd left Addison to wait for the bus, but no one waited to intercept him.

The next sound was of a bin tipped over, feet slogging through rubbish, and then Sherlock's yelp as he was tossed to the ground. John rounded the corner into the alley abnormally fast, and his heart was in his stomach when he saw the three men throwing unarmed punches at the man at their feet—trying to fight back, lashing out with his long limbs and getting a good hit in once or twice, but overwhelmed and exhausted from the fight.

John didn't even question throwing himself into the fray, simply leapt.

He didn't have his gun, it would've been too much of a hassle to get it on board with them. God, he wished he had his gun. As it was, John had little time to think as he charged forward into the mass of brutes swinging. His knuckles hit a hard mass of flesh, the nearest man's face, and his next hit was in the eye. The brute reeled back, and John bent double instantly to sweep up the broken, heavy curtain rod from the nearby pile of rubbish.

He swung it with little thought, caught one of the thugs in the side of the face. Hit the half-blinded man over his shoulders, kicked him to the ground when he fell to his knee. Bludgeoned the last man right in the breadbasket with all the force he could muster behind the rod. He fell back with a yelp. John was lucky they were so uncoordinated, and his wide-arced horizontal swings backed them all away from Sherlock's prostrate body.

The blunt point of the rod sunk into one man's middle, and as he tumbled backward, he upended another bin and took off into the alley. John threatened the second by baring his teeth and pulling the rod back for another wide swing, and he took the message, running after his compatriot.

The last man picked himself off his knee and skittered off, leaving John to drop the weapon and immediately check on the groaning man in the pile of rubbish. "Sherl—"

Sherlock clapped a hand hard over John's mouth, and even through the pain he managed a spectacularly vile glare.

John frowned, peeled Sherlock's hand away. "Addison," he growled unnecessarily, "I was going to ask if you're all right." They clearly hadn't gotten many hits in before John had begun swinging, though there would be a pretty bruise to share under his right eye, and his lip had split painfully.

"Christ, you need a doctor," John grunted as he hefted Sherlock's weight off the ground.

"John, _you're_ a doctor." He drunkenly swiped at the blood on his lips, focused seriously. "No police, no hospitals. Please."

The bus arrived on time, and John handed over the tickets with an offhanded excuse of a bar fight. They sat in the back, didn't speak or look at anyone else who wandered on or off.

Sherlock was smiling wickedly to himself as John administered a new bandage to Sherlock's brow in the bathroom of Emile's flat. "We're getting close," he murmured, fingertips drumming together thoughtfully.

John's eyes flicked up, and when Sherlock didn't explain, he rolled his eyes and asked: "Close to what, Sherlock?"

"John, you were just face-to-face with Henri's killers, don't ask me _close to what_ like you're a child." His eyes were cold and gray, analyzing. "Did you get a good look at any of them?"

He thought as best he could, but everything had been a blur in his rush to get them and their fists away from Sherlock. Before he could even shake his head, Sherlock sighed and leaned back.

"I hope the walls are thick enough to mask the violin," he said languidly, though one sad look at the state of his hands showed that it would be more noise than notes drifting from the strings.

"No," John insisted. "If you don't rest up, you won't be able to walk out of this flat in the morning. Sherlock," he insisted.

And, for once, he listened.

* * *

AN: ACTION CHAPTER! I watched some boxing in order to get ready for this, it's really brutal, even when it's legal. I wasn't sure how long or short to make the fight, so I hope it turned out all right! Thanks so so much to everyone who reads, and those who review, you are ALL my favorite people. Thanks again to Lady Dan for beta-ing. Thanks to all for reading, leave some love, and STAY AWESOME!


	5. Data

**Chapter Five: Data**

John woke with a start to the noise of his mobile trying to buzz off the coffee table beside his head. He blearily grabbed for it, noting the time at some distant fog before six in the morning, and checked the message with half-open eyes.

_sherlock not answering phone. two bodies at holborn station. where are you?  
GL_

John groaned, rubbing his face hopelessly. Of course Sherlock hadn't let anyone know where they were going (and with Mrs. Hudson taking the boy's time off for her own holiday with her sister in Cornwall, they were as good as ghosts to the world). He attempted to blink sleep away and typed in a curt answer.

_Nantes.  
JW_

Of course, that wouldn't be the end of it, so John pulled his knees to his chest, watching the sun rise through gauzy curtains and awaiting Lestrade's inevitable reply. Sometimes he wished the DI would just call and save him the trouble of typing, but perhaps the DI felt the texting was a more discreet way to summon outside help than shouting into the phone.

_what the hell are you doing in france? get sherlock to answer his bloody phone.  
GL_

John's eyes flicked to the closed bedroom door, sighed through his nose. No easy sleep for the vigilant doctor, and there was no text that would make him steal hours from the bruised detective snoring (_snoring!_) in his room.

_Holiday, for a week. Sherlock sleeping, will pass message along. Good luck.  
JW_

_fat load you two do me. hope you enjoy your sodding date.  
GL_

_NOT A DATE  
JW_

John clapped his phone shut and grumpily tossed it into his bag, where it buzzed twice and finally fell silent. Sense of superiority achieved, he wondered if he could manage to fall asleep before Sherlock found it in him to rise. He listened for a good ten minutes for any sounds of unrest or discomfort from Sherlock's room, and when he was satisfied, he tucked back into the sofa and buried himself in sleep.

He woke three hours later when Sherlock uttered a very loud, uncharacteristic curse from the bedroom. John was quick to his feet, knocking solidly on the door. "Sherlock? All right?"

"Paracetamol," Sherlock's muffled voice demanded.

John dug briefly in his bag, investigated Emile's medicine cabinet until he found an unopened foil and a fresh bandage should the recovering boxer need it. He didn't knock a second time, simply letting himself in and dropping the glass of water heavily on the side table. Sherlock, a tangle of sheets and legs and bruises, grunted and threw a pillow over his face when John took a seat on the bed beside him.

"I'm not going to force-feed you, get up," John instructed, grabbing the pillow and tossing it aside. Sherlock glared resentfully up at him (one of his eyes squinting more than usual on account of the swelling under it), and sat up gingerly to accommodate him. John handed the foil over and peeled off the bandage at Sherlock's brow. "How're you holding up, then?"

"Your mobile," Sherlock said, wrenching away from the incoming bandage as he threw back his head to swallow the tablets.

"What?"

"It's been going off all morning, who's texting you?" The cut was looking nice, but John added a coat of antibiotic ointment just to be sure it didn't scar. He smoothed the bandage out, checked for anything he'd missed the night before.

"Our favorite inspector," John muttered, only half-resentfully.

Sherlock grimaced for him and stood without warning. John opened his mouth in protest, but Sherlock was already moving for the sitting room. When John joined him, the detective was holding his discarded phone, smirking, eyes calculating, answers bubbling up from the inside.

"He's sent you crime scene photos."

He was silent for a time, inspecting each of them as John stretched, considered brushing his teeth while he waited.

"Dull," Sherlock breathed at last, knocking off a message from John's phone before he tossed it into the doctor's waiting hands. As Sherlock loped off for the bathroom, John inspected the sent text.

_Stab wounds from dull kitchen knife, female stabber shorter than five feet. Took Piccadilly line to Leicester Square. Don't bother John again.  
SH_

John smirked privately and pocketed the phone. Breakfast was sounding wonderful.

And it was, until Emile swooped in and helped himself to it.

Sherlock didn't take a seat when he ate, and John knew that it was because of the extra beating he'd taken to the ribs from the attempted attack in the alley even if he didn't say so. He leaned against the counter, picked disdainfully at the plate John had given him and only ate in earnest when John barked "Sherlock!" at him in his strongest military voice.

It had been up to John to fill Emile in to the events that took place after they'd left the gym the night before, and the amiable frenchman's face had gone dark at the revelations. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind, John added, that these were the men who had attacked and killed Henri, and that it had taken place in a similar if not identical fashion.

"They were boxers," Sherlock stated, touching his fingertips together and looking straight up at the ceiling instead of either of the men at the breakfast nook. "The precision in their strikes was no accident, they were trying to make it look as if I had been killed in a boxing incident, or as a result of the injuries sustained in a match. I assume Henri didn't have his prize money on him when the police discovered the body?"

"No," Emile said, looking ever more concerned. "That is why they said mugging, no money or identification was left."

Sherlock flashed a lopsided, self-congratulatory smile. "Emile, was Henri the only boxer in this ring to have gone missing in the last two months?"

While he thought, John attempted to figure out the puzzle pieces Sherlock was fitting together. The boxers were killed for the prize money, in a way that wouldn't be suspicious to anyone who didn't know that they were all a part of the illegal fighting operation. So, it wasn't to bust the ring, only to get a greater share of the money.

"No, a boy had gone, five weeks ago. Louis, Prunier's kid—weak hit but fast. We'd been told he'd gone to Quebec to see family." And Emile had gone pale at the realization.

"Now, this is important," Sherlock said, processing the information but not feeling its impact. He had moved from the counter to stand directly in front of Emile, serious gray eyes narrowing to stare him down. "Did they win their matches on the nights that they died?"

Emile nodded slowly, and John's stomach did a knot when he saw that the man's eyes were dewy. "Sherlock, are you saying that the men that I work with are the ones that did this?"

"Likely only one of them," Sherlock said, spinning away from the table and beginning a sharp pace. "The prize money is nothing to scoff at, but it would be a rather embarrassing take to split between three men. So, who needed the money? Who stood to gain the most from the situation? Who stood to lose?"

He turned to Emile. "You lost one boxer, nearly lost another last night." John shifted in his seat, but Sherlock couldn't sense what had suddenly brought him discomfort and he continued. "Clearly, someone wants to send you a message, destroy your source of income. Someone with a grudge."

"Emile's not the only one with a boxer gone," John pointed out, jumping in much to the delight in Sherlock's eyes. "That chap Prunier—" John stopped himself, and it hit him. "Prunier's went missing first, then they went after Emile's..." And then John was standing. "Sherlock, you went to the fight knowing who it was, didn't you?"

"Testing a hypothesis, John," Sherlock muttered behind his ticking fingertips. "Eliminating unimportant factors, baiting a trap."

"You set yourself up." John was turning an angry shade of red. "If you weren't such a mess I'd _kill_ you, Sherlock!" he snapped. "You _could've_ been killed! They could've..." It swept over him in a gray shadow, that Sherlock very well could have been killed in that alley if he hadn't been quick enough.

"Nonsense," Sherlock murmured, "I had my blogger at my back."

"Reckless. Idiot." John growled through his teeth.

"I've proved it, haven't I?" Sherlock snarled, and he winced as everything went tense in his defense. "The scars you saw on his hand; he was a bare-knuckle fighter. Hardly evidence of a league fighter, so he was underground. Where he met Emile, am I right?" Emile quailed under the brimstone stare he had accumulated for John, but he nodded. Head snapping back to John, he continued: "Emile was the better fighter, got the drop on Prunier once too often, and he built a grudge. Motivation. He stayed to watch my match, even though his own fighter had the match before mine—Michaud, the man with the scar, his man."

John stared him down, arms crossed to keep his hands from throttling his friend. Sherlock didn't budge. "All right, so he's the one behind it. We get the police in and get back to London."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Just because Lestrade does what I tell him to doesn't mean the _gendarmes_ will come rushing in because I've said that a man with scarred knuckles is the brain behind the murders. We've got to catch him at it, John. And his posse, if we can manage."

Ignoring the doctor's immediate protestations, he turned again to Emile. "When's the next match?"

The frenchman's eyes flicked between them. "Two days from now."

"Don't talk to Prunier—no, any of them—if you can manage it. I can't trust you to pull of ignorance." Sherlock skirted John and attempted to leave the kitchen. "Lie low, pretend you've caught something."

John caught his arm at the elbow and pulled him back, even if he couldn't ignore the spasm of pain it sent through Sherlock's eyes. "You're not doing this again."

"John Watson," Sherlock said, scrutinizing him, squinting unevenly through the swelling. "You'll chase cabs by rooftop and lie to the police, but _boxing_ is your line? Really, John?"

"It's _you_," John barked at last, and it was louder than he'd meant it. Lower, but still clipped, he went on. "You, in the ring with a _murderer_. You, running in, not thinking, getting yourself beat all to hell." He sighed sharply through his nose, wetted his lips, shifted to his other foot. "It doesn't even bother you, does it?"

"Would you expect me to stop _you_?" Eyes narrowed, venom stinging. They had both forgotten Emile was with them; even he seemed to forget that he could leave at any time.

"If I was getting out of hand, yeah, I'd expect someone to tell me I was being a selfish git."

"Do you want to keep people from dying?"

"Of course!"

"Then stop being a selfish git." And he wrenched his arm free of John's grip, spun on heel and, with chin high, stomped from the kitchen.

After a good minute of fuming, John finally did realize that Emile was still sitting in his chair, apologized profusely, and saw him to the door. And, in a voice he hoped was low enough to remain unheard from behind the closed (slammed) bedroom door, he advised Emile to follow Sherlock's instructions.

* * *

Lestrade sent a text mid-afternoon to inform them that they'd collared a very short young lady for the murder of the women at Holborn station, browsing a shop in Leicester Square with the money she'd pocketed. John, who had been typing a furious blog entry that would never be published, kneaded his fingers into the bridge of his nose and knew what he had to do. And he knew Sherlock would know, and he knew that he'd hate the insufferable look of satisfaction Sherlock would be wearing when he opened the door.

He knocked, and at least Sherlock gave him the decency to pretend he hadn't been waiting. He hadn't wiped the knowing look from his face, however, and it brought out the aggrieved lines in John's face.

"Look," John began before Sherlock could attempt to sound smug, "I still think you're daft—"

"Likewise," Sherlock murmured behind a sideways smirk.

"—but if you're serious about getting yourself into trouble, I'm with you. You need someone at your back because you won't turn your bloody head once you get going forward. Hell, I made it through smugglers and consulting criminals, boxing's a bit _dull_ in comparison, isn't it?"

"And you'll allow me, in the ring with a murderer?" Sherlock asked, pointedly recalling the precise phrasing.

"You're going to need someone to help when you cock it up." And he let impulse tweak a weak smile.

Sherlock nodded, and the smugness fell away to something that might have been appreciation if it weren't sitting on the face of Sherlock Holmes. "Good. Lunch?"

"God, please," John exhaled. "You buying?"

"In my state?"

They took the stairs to the street in tandem. John paid for lunch, which Sherlock didn't eat. When he asked, unbidden, what Lestrade had said about the Holborn murders, John handed his mobile over.

When he got it back, the sent text read:

_You're quite welcome. Stop bothering John or next time I won't be bothered to pitch in.  
SH

* * *

_AN: Happy New Year! I wasn't planning on posting this chapter tonight, but it finished itself! Esp. since my brother fell asleep before midnight and left me plenty of time to write. It's a bit short and mostly expository, but the end will be coming fairly soon, so I figure we'd better solve the mystery. I hope everyone's as excited for the conclusion as I am, and here's hoping I get around to finishing it soon! Thanks so so so much for reading, leave some love, and STAY AWESOME!


	6. Finish

**Chapter Six: Finish**

The cut at Sherlock's brow was almost unnoticeable by the time the day of the match rolled around, and he was flitting unhindered around the flat like a trapped bird before long. They had tried to make themselves scarce, stay isolated so as to not provoke another attack. There was no word on the news (Sherlock kept the telly on, only loud enough to drown out the annoying silence) on any other attacks or deaths, and it seemed as though the hypothesis of wanting to cut right at Emile's heart had been correct. It was all about hamstringing him, and getting money for their troubles. John wondered gloomily which fighters he paid to attack them, and how much they were getting from the cut.

It seemed to take forever, a looming dread like a thunderhead over Nantes, for John. For Sherlock, the wait was over in an instant.

It was unseasonably cold for Nantes, not quite to the freezing point but close enough to warrant an extra layer. And John pulled Sherlock back in the door before he could waltz out in shirtsleeves, fingers unnaturally steady as they stuffed Sherlock into a jacket with arms too short for his. Sherlock's fixed gaze down his nose knew why those hands weren't shaking, and knew that John felt they were getting into a serious bit of trouble because of the sudden total self-control. Even John's breathing was terse, collected.

"John," Sherlock muttered, and the doctor dropped his hands in frustration, scrubbed them both through his short hair and finally snapped his eyes up to find Sherlock's.

"I know." Dropped his hands, shook his head sharply. "I know."

Sherlock (no, Addison) clapped John on the shoulder, gave a brave smile that flashed more teeth than Sherlock would ever dare, and he hop-skipped down the steps like a kid out to play. John took several deep breaths before he slung his bag over his shoulder and rushed down after him.

Twilight was coming cooly down to Nantes, sky turning to cold violet with the stars bursting out in the crisp air. The traffic moved along like any other evening, but it didn't sit in John's gut like just another evening. Hanging behind Sherlock (eyes darting back and forth between every face that passed, tense and ready to grab a gun that wasn't there if he had to), watching the man lope merrily along like it was any other evening, he felt transported back to the long desert nights waiting for something he knew was going to happen. Trained tension, and the trained senses that came with it.

He would be ready. If something happened, he would be ready to stop it.

They didn't bother with the bus. Sherlock had told him that he wanted everyone to see him walking about as if nothing had happened (as if he hadn't rolled around in bed for two days complaining about the yellowing bruise under his eye and the stinging in his ribs). If there were any eyes peering out from the shadows, he wanted them to see. And John wanted them to see that he wasn't alone, that there was someone who was going to bite back if bitten.

This time, they arrived at the gym before most of the crowd had gathered. There was still a pack of rowdy spectators who were jostling for the prime seats, and soon there would be even more of them. John stuck to Sherlock's elbow, tight-lipped and observant. He'd learned to keep an eye on a hostile environment long before he'd met Sherlock.

Far in the corner, purposely avoiding any and all eye-contact, was Emile. And two men who John knew without a doubt were the _gendarmes_ out of uniform he had said he would bring along. It had meant turning himself in, shutting down the ring once it was all over and done with, but (he had admitted, standing in the kitchenette a day ago, eyes at his feet and everything in him defeated) he was doing it for Henri. Maybe for Sherlock, if he was pressed to answering, but mostly for Henri.

Catch them in the act, Sherlock had said.

"Come on, Addison," John said without having to think (because Addison and Sherlock were so different now, he didn't know how he had ever confused them). "Let's get you dolled up."

Sherlock chuckled behind him, John having already taken steps for the changing room. He followed dutifully, stopping only once when a highly inebriated young woman approached and asked for him for a kiss. He politely leaned down and gave her a peck to the cheek, after which John had circled back and jerked him away from the suddenly raving girl, fuming.

The girl called after them, throwing kisses through the air that Sherlock caught, shouting something back over his shoulder in French. John shook his head, shoved Sherlock into the changing room before him to hide him before he could make even more of a fool out of himself.

"Glad to see you're taking this so seriously," John chided, peering once back out of the door to see if the enthusiastic young woman had followed them. She hadn't.

Sherlock wiped his mouth clean on the sleeve of his jacket before he tugged himself out of it. "Someone may as well get something nice out of the evening, Peter."

They ceased talking as Michaud, the man with the scar, appeared through the door. Sherlock's eyes narrowed (deducting without having to think, fitting every little thing about the man into their separate files), and he smiled condescendingly. John flashed him a nervous little nod, trying not to look the man in the eye and appear busy. Grabbing Sherlock's gloves from the bag, that sounded like a good idea.

Sherlock said something in ridiculously perky French, smiling ear-to-ear.

Michaud replied grumpily, causing a delighted giggle to burst from Sherlock's chest. John smirked into his shoulder, having never heard the noise before, wondering how Sherlock had even managed it. Master of disguise.

"Someone isn't pleased that I'm looking fine and eager," Sherlock murmured, joining John and smiling to himself in a very pleased way when Michaud had moved away to make himself ready.

"You think he's one of..." He trailed off, because he knew Sherlock would follow him. Probably knew that John would ask.

"Possible. He doesn't bend at the torso, where you might have hit him with the curtain rod. I wish I'd been in a better state," he sighed absently. "I can't count on you to deduce anything while my eyes are out of commission."

"I suppose I'll just leave it to you, next time, then?" John asked, wanting to keep his face straight but unable to.

"Just try harder to collect details the next time you come to my rescue," Sherlock replied with a reptilian smirk.

The crowd had gotten quite loud very quickly, and it was chanting with new, brighter fervor than the bunch three nights ago, which John thought was quite an achievement in itself. The PA was loud enough to hear from the changing room, but he was hardly paying it any attention. He had focused on keeping his mind and eyes sharp for Sherlock, cataloguing what he could about every fighter, doctor, trainer, or janitor that walked into that changing room. While Sherlock warmed up, John collected data. Every eyebrow that rose at Sherlock's condition (or even his presence), every muffled conversation (in French, damn them and damn their language, and damn _him_ for paying less attention to the words than to the back of Tara Brockman's head in French class).

Emile appeared at last, once the cheering had reached its climax and the PA had shut off with a whine. He didn't even need to open his mouth for Sherlock to guess who he would be going up against.

He smiled, and it was sharp, but even John could see the angry twist that came into it. "Michaud," Sherlock declared, and to his immense credit, his mask never flinched. "Well, I've dealt with him before, there shouldn't be any trouble." He sighed through his nose and held out both of his hands. "Gloves, Peter."

"No gloves," Emile interrupted, pressing Sherlock's outstretched hands away and down. "Bare-hands match, the conditions have been set for all matches tonight. They want more blood, more animal violence. Good old days," Emile added with a healthy sneer.

Sherlock shifted his weight and straightened his shoulders. "Very well. I'll need more tape, Peter. When do I go on?" he asked as John complied, his face gone pale.

"Last. You are the big name fight, tonight. They will all stay to see the two of you turn each other to ground meat." Emile did not sound happy. He sounded exactly the way John felt, wrapping Sherlock's knuckles and wrists in as much padding tape as he could afford without sacrificing movement.

From across the room, John and Michaud met gazes and stared one another down. Michaud smirked exactly as might a shark (two of his teeth were missing in the back). His eyes said _I will kill him._

John's eyes screamed back _Not if I have anything to say about it._

There was a great swell of sound when Addison Darling emerged for his fight. He waved his long, exposed fingers and grinned. Like a celebrity. All he needed were the paparazzi flashbulbs and microphones pressed into his face, John thought.

He caught Sherlock before he hopped up into the ring, clasping his shoulder tightly. Sherlock cocked his head, didn't say a thing.

"Mouthguard, idiot," John said for the second time, handing it over rather than administering it himself. Sherlock bit into it, grinned to show it off, and nodded once in finality that wrenched John's gut. He didn't stay to hear John call "Good luck" after him.

He vaguely registered the sound of the bell ringing and the seasurge of the crowd washing up around them, but the ringing in his ears slowly drowned them out—a ringing very much like gunfire, and the silence that followed after it.

It seemed slow, at first. Two fighters testing the air with their eyes, sizing the other up, tensing and relaxing. Sherlock's fingers flexing into tight fists, tucked up under his chin. Michaud rolling his shoulders and grinning cheekily. Both pairs of feet bouncing, shifting.

Sherlock was bold, took the first swipe. Michaud ducked, took two darting jabs at Sherlock's ribs. And the exchange began again. Sherlock tried to compensate for the height difference, turning his long reach rather to defense. Curled his arms against his ribs, blocking fists with wrists. Twisted his long body side to side when unshod fists approached.

Michaud was thick, properly muscled and broad, and he was much better than Sherlock was giving him credit for. His punches were heavy and blunt, and Sherlock lost gasps of air between his teeth with each one. There were no padded gloves to protect him this time, just skin on skin, knuckle to bone. It stung with every swipe, with every connection he made or was made against him.

So Sherlock stepped back, analyzed. Quick footwork coupled with quick deduction. Every time he went for the middle, for the ribs, Michaud blocked with meaty arms. Then, Sherlock wondered. He gave an experimental jab at the side of Michaud's face. It went through, not a single deflection. Sherlock came back with blood on the white tape wrapping his knuckles. _Michaud was guarding his middle, protecting it, but allowing hits to his face and neck. He was sturdier there, he was allowing hits. He was buying time._

Then, John saw it, and it hit him as if he'd been the one taking punches up there. Michaud was wearing a gorgeous line of a bruise right across his middle. Not in the ribs, where a glove might have buffeted him, not even in the shape of a fist. Like a curtain rod had caught him in the middle. John's heart was beating too fast, blotting out all sound as it thundered in his ears. Prunier's doctor (Christ, if he'd been Sherlock he'd have seen it two years ago and from seven miles away) was sporting a long, violent bruise on the side of his face that John remembered bashing with the end of the broken rod in a stinking back alley filled with rubbish. And Prunier himself, with the black eye John had put there, staring right at him and gently massaging the old scars on his knuckles. John's breath felt solid in his throat, staring into that vengeful eye, old and calm and cold and hateful.

"Addison!" John cried out at once, never taking his eyes from the old man even as the blur of legs in the ring passed between them. But it was no use, it was only taken up in a chant by the crowd.

Prunier gave an imperceptible nod to someone at the table, the man with the microphone, and in response, two blasts were made on an air horn. The crowd only gave another cheer as one, but it was a signal. It was the signal for Michaud to drop to one knee and pull the switchblade from his sock.

"SHERLOCK!" John pealed like a warning bell just as someone in the crowd gave a high-pitched shriek at the sliver of metal that had appeared in the boxer's hand.

It was the swift turn of Sherlock's head in John's direction, the slight pitch in his shoulders and neck, that let the knife swipe right past his artery to slice a red line harmlessly across his shoulder. They seemed to hang that way for too long; wide, slant gray eyes shocked and (scared?) Michaud's dark eyes and face gone darker and pinched and why weren't they moving?

The world started again when Sherlock made a graceful birdlike move to sock Michaud straight in the nose. The boxer recovered quickly, made a backhanded slash at Sherlock's chest, missed by a hair. Two more exchanged blows, faster than John's eyes, one to Michaud's ear and the other to Sherlock's arm. _Red_.

Emile was shouting something in French, but was knocked aside as the crowd moved forward as one, screaming and flailing and knocking bodies to the ground to leap and step over in their excitement to escape. A stampede, one undulating wall of forward and sideways movement, panicked and directionless. One knife at a boxing match, one flick of silver and red, and they fled.

Sherlock tried to block another slash, well-aimed and efficient, and only succeeded in a long red line across his palm. Another was coming, and this time it was a stab.

And it might have plunged deep into his collar bone if John Watson hadn't come running in full-barrel and rugby tackled Michaud (so hard that the ring shook with the impact of both bodies, Sherlock's knees locking to keep his footing). And suddenly it was John trading punches with the frenchman, rolling on the floor of the ring half-wrestling for control of the knife, half-brawling with thick fists flying and teeth gnashing. John grabbed the knife wrist in one hand, slammed it back again and again against the floor with jaw-rattling strength, taking hits from Michaud's free fist to his ear, his neck, taking each one of them until the knife dropped away.

Sherlock hardly had time to register his shock before someone else had him from behind (Prunier's doctor, also an ex-boxer and one of the men that had attacked him, by John's handiwork on his face) and tried to lay him out on his own. This one was easier, even with his hand and shoulder bleeding red lines down pale skin. The smirk even came back to bruised lips when he blocked and parried and dodged the frustrated swinging fists.

Prunier had attempted to run for it. Emile (and thirty seconds later, the two _gendarmes_)were on him before he could lose himself in the frightened, jostling crowd. They didn't make any objection to the heavy-handed uppercut Emile landed. As the cuffs went on, Emile allowed himself a proud grin: he still had it.

The doctor gave in easily, once Sherlock had knocked two of his teeth loose and sent him tumbling out of the ring like a bag of refuse. He had another doctor to deal with, one far more important than the whinging, toothless ex-boxer.

John didn't stop swinging at Michaud even when Sherlock tried to peel him away. He got in two more good hits and a grazing third before Sherlock bundled him away, leaving the bloody and thoroughly beaten Michaud for the _gendarmes_. The doctor hadn't come away all roses either, and the left side of his face had been assaulted by desperate right-hand punches—if one of them had been any closer to his nose, it might have broken. John was half-beaten, bleeding from his lip and his nose, panting for breath and only partially free of the angry bloodlust, but it all drained away when Sherlock shook him roughly by the shoulders and called him back.

Then, he stumbled against the ropes and tried very hard not to pass out.

* * *

Backup had arrived seven minutes ago, including three ambulances and six police vehicles (five cars and one van) in which they could pack everyone they had managed to slip cuffs onto. Two spectators had been nearly crushed underfoot by the stampede and had to be driven away with all haste. One ambulance had been for Michaud (John had done quite a number on him, and Sherlock didn't say it, but he was quite impressed), which drove away at a leisurely pace with a uniformed officer sitting in watch beside the stretcher. The last was meant to be for either Sherlock or John, or even both of them, but neither seemed in that great a rush to get to a hospital.

Sherlock held a cold compress to John's swelling eye (oh, it would be black and beautiful in the morning, John knew from the drumming in his skull) with the hand that hadn't been sliced open and heavily bandaged (at least it had been a clean cut, and wouldn't scar too badly) as they sat on the back step of their patient ambulance. Sherlock did all the talking to the kind young sergeant (a pretty woman who might have reminded John a bit of Sally Donovan, if she'd been kind-hearted or warm), French spilling off his tongue as if he hadn't been punched in the mouth several times that evening.

Emile scrubbed a fond hand in Sherlock's short curls, congratulating him, thanking him, gingerly seizing the young man's face in his hands to kiss both cheeks in celebration. He said that, with any luck and his very fervent testimony against the three men who had attempted to kill them that evening, he may just be let off again. John wished him the best, and he didn't know precisely what it was that Sherlock said to him in French, but he _did_ hear the name Henri. And he saw the pinched sadness in the smile that Emile gave them. He nodded, and he was gone into the back of the nearest police car.

"I can do that, you know," John said at last, trying to reach for the cold compress in Sherlock's hand. "My arm's not broken." Though his fists were certainly throbbing.

"You really must stop doing this," Sherlock said, dutifully handing over control of the cold pack to John.

"Doing what?"

Sherlock smiled, this time none of Addison straying in. "Saving my life."

John gave a single laugh and mirrored him. "You've got your uses."

* * *

AN: PHEW! Took me long enough to get this one up! This could very well be the end of this fic (I had planned on this being the end) but it could use a short epilogue if anyone thinks it could use one. BUT HOORAY! Villains caught, our heroes walk away, another mystery solved. I had so much fun writing this, and I hope y'all had fun reading, too. I'd grown rather fond of Addison and Emile, but it's time to put them in a box and move on. Thank you all so so much for reading and sending me your support, I really appreciate every lovely review (and readers who don't review, thanks for reading, it still gives me warm feelings!) So, hope you enjoyed the last chapter, leave us some love, and don't forget to STAY AWESOME!


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